


Carved knives and polvorones

by ThatsrightZoeyeyye



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, a study of the DMA's thought process, colleagues to lovers really, oh no Emotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsrightZoeyeyye/pseuds/ThatsrightZoeyeyye
Summary: The DMA raised an eyebrow, and Sergio sat in one of the old armchairs, unprompted. The DMA usually killed those who sat uninvited. At least stabbed them. He valued politeness. One does not sit in someone's home unless one has been invited to. Maybe, the DMA thought, Sergio spent enough time in the warehouse that he could sit. It wasn't like he was resting his feet on the coffee table anyway.Written for the Starkid, TCB, and Shipwrecked Secret Santa Event by Olive (@showstoppingnumbrr on Tumblr)tw: mention of violence, a fair amount of stabbing, lots of murder apology (it's for the character, this fic doesn't refect my views gUYs murder is bad ok), mild homophobia
Relationships: Murderous Pastries, Sergio/DMA, Sergio/Deadliest Man Alive
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Carved knives and polvorones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [showstoppingnumbrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/showstoppingnumbrr/gifts), [Paige (@toxic-cup-of-joey-richter)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Paige+%28%40toxic-cup-of-joey-richter%29).



> Merry Christmas Paige! I've been following you since I found out I'd have to write this present for you, and I don't regret it. You're really cool.  
> It was Very Obvious that you love these bois, but I still sent an anon ask and you comfirmed that they were, in fact, your favourite starkid/tcb ship, so I thought I should write about them. I don't know what headcannons and theories you have for them, so I just kind of made up stuff as I went. I hope you like it :)

_HUDSON WAREHOUSE, WEST BERLIN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY - DECEMBER 23rd, 1961 - 8:32 PM_

The Deadliest Man Alive, DMA for short, was sharpening a knife. He enjoyed doing that on Saturdays. There was something relaxing in the way the roughness of the blade slowly smoothed away to create a new shiny sharpness. He also liked the noise, although some found it too seering. Sergio did. Not that it mattered.

The DMA raised the blade to eye level, admiring it under the feeble light of the old dusty light bulb that illuminated the corner of the warehouse. The blade was magnificent, beautifully curved. He couldn't wait to stab someone with it. A knife of this quality would cut through the flesh with no difficulty. He liked that.

The door of the warehouse opened and closed, making enough noise that he knew it wasn't someone sneaking in to kill him, but delicately enough that he knew it wasn't someone barging in to kill him. All of his associates knocked. They either learnt quickly or died. There was enough working force to spare, he could kill a few people to set the example. It didn't matter how many dozens qualified as "a few".

The only one who didn't sneak in, didn't barge in, didn't knock, and was still alive to tell the story, was Sergio. It wasn't that the DMA appreciated him more than the others, it was just that, sometimes, one had to make compromises to keep qualified employees. Sergio wasn't his employee, but he was qualified. He did the job, respected the rules, respected him, didn't ask for more money or advantages, didn't want recognition. He did the job, got his money, and left it at that. The DMA appreciated that. He did talk a lot, but still, qualified.

"Good evening, Sergio," he said, his voice deep, calm, controlled.

Sergio walked towards him, waving his hand frantically like a child, smiling goofily.

"Oh, my man, you cannot imagine how glad I am to see you."

The DMA raised an eyebrow, and Sergio sat in one of the old armchairs, unprompted. The DMA usually killed those who sat uninvited. At least stabbed them. He valued politeness. One does not sit in someone's home unless one has been invited to. Maybe, the DMA thought, Sergio spent enough time in the warehouse that he could sit. It wasn't like he was resting his feet on the coffee table anyway.

"I thought I was never going to get here, the traffic is intense. Intense!" Sergio continued, getting more comfortable in his armchair, "everyone is leaving for Christmas with their families at the other side of the countries, the roads are filled with cars with luggages on top, honking away at each other."

"Sergio," the DMA interrupted, like every time his associate talked too much.

"Right, sorry," Sergio cleared his throat, taking a paper from his jacket pocket. He raised his legs and rested his feet on the coffee table. The DMA's jaw clenched, he took the paper, his jaw unclenched. Sergio didn't notice.

"Here's everything you need to know. Don't take too long, Ulrich is scheduled to meet Hans on Tuesday, he might snitch then."

"Thank you very much," the DMA answered.

He paused, frowned. He couldn't remember the last time he put as much emphasis on these words. Sergio cocked his head surprised, and smiled a little.

"You're welcome, boss, always a pleasure to work for you."

The DMA nodded curtly.

"Likewise," he heard himself say.

He had been raised to be polite. When one is complimented, one returns the compliment if one deems it appropriate for the situation.

He had also been told that "thou shall not kill", but he had long lost trust in Bible. "No man is to have sexual relations with another man; God hates that", said the little book he had been told to read as a child. It also read "anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love", which seemed to contradict with homophobia, so he had stopped listening to his Bible and the people who did. He would pray for forgiveness before he died, repent his sins, and go to Heaven. He had loved, hadn't he? He believed it would be enough.  


_PARK IN WEST BERLIN - DECEMBER 25TH, 1961 - 10:08 AM_

The DMA didn't care about Christmas. He hadn't celebrated it in years. It didn't matter, really. He had no one to celebrate it with. He didn't want to. He was fine. He was sure God wouldn't blame him too much for not celebreating His son's birthday.

He was walking in a park, all alone, thouroughly enjoying the solitude, the calm, the quiet. Everyone was inside, opening presents. Tired parents in old bath robes, trying to remember that the happiness of their children's faces was worth the hole in their bank accounts. Cheerful children giggling away, unaware of their parents' worries. The DMA was happy the way things were. He spent his money the way he liked. On nice torture instruments, hair products and jackets, mostly. He considered himself happy.

Sergio was probably happy too. Spending Christmas with his wife and kids, not worrying about money. Their line of work paid well, the holidays would be happy at the Santos'.

Not that it mattered. The DMA didn't care about Sergio, or his wife Angie, or his son Carlos, who was 17, or his daughter Sonia, who was 21. He only knew everyone's names because Sergio kept talking about them. It was perfectly normal. The DMA valued politeness in work relationships.

What he least expected, on his delightfully lonely Christmas walk in the park, was to see Sergio sitting alone on a bench. He looked around, tried to follow Sergio's gaze to catch a glimpse of someone else, but found nothing. Sergio was sitting cross-legged on a bench, eating pastries on his own.

The DMA didn't care about Sergio, seeing him like this did not make him feel sad. The problem was that he didn't understand what was happening, and he hated not understanding. He also hated dishonesty, and Sergio had spent the past few weeks bugging him about Christmas, and how happy he was to be with his family, which was apparently a lie. That was the problem.

So he sat on the bench next to Sergio.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, man!" Sergio exclaimed, almost jumping off of the bench from the surprise. Seeing his colleague's clenched jaw and the look of determined uncertainity in his eyes, he seemed to calm down.

"You okay, there, pal?" he uttered in a low voice, unsure.

The DMA breathed sharply, opened his mouth, closed it, turned his head to look into Sergio's eyes. He hadn't thought through what his was going to say, but he sure wanted answers.

"Where's Angie?" he asked, trying to sound casual and polite.

Sergio frowned, from the surprise at first, then seemed upset. He lowered his eyes, raised the corner of his mouth in an attempt of a smile that made him only look sadder.

"Dead," he answered curtly, "October 1951."

"But," the DMA hesitated, lost, "you celebrated your anniversary, just a few months ago. And every year, for as long as I've known you. Two dozen Montecados and Polvorones. They get more expensive every year."

Sergio's shoulders fell as he turned to look at the trees, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

"I didn't want to let her go," he whispered, "I know she's gone, and I know she's not coming back. But it's hard to get over the death of someone you love."

The DMA stayed silent for a moment. He thought of his past, when his name was Owen and he loved Curt and Curt loved him. He had given up on that long ago. For a long time, he had wanted to take revenge. To hurt Curt as much as Curt had hurt him, to watch him fall, watch him hurt, watch him beg for mercy as the man he had loved let him die. Imagining his screams and pleas had motivated him, fueled him. After a few years, he had given up. Had decided that Curt wasn't worth the effort. Wasn't worth his time and energy.

So he had started over, assumed the identity of the Deadliest Man Alive as who he truly was. Had thrown away the mask and thrown away his past. It wasn't worth it.

"I'm sorry," he told Sergio. Because maybe he was. He knew what it was like to lose the person you loved. The circumstances weren't the same, but he figured the pain was comparable.

"Where's Carlos?" he asked.

"Dead," Sergio said again, his voice empty, "he was in East Berlin in August when they built the Wall. Didn't want me to be alone for Angie's death's tenth anniversary. Tried to cross to come home."

"I'm sorry," the DMA repeated.

He hesitated for a moment, afraid of what the answer would be, but figured he might as well ask.

"Where's Sonia?"

"Lives in East Berlin with her husband," Sergio answered.

It seemed like the least bad alternative.

"At least she's alive," the DMA said tentatively.

"At least she's alive," Sergio repeated.

Silence fell, and they stared at the trees for a while. The DMA was unsure whether he should stay or leave.

"Care for a pastry?" Sergio asked. The DMA nodded. He stayed.

_HUDSON WAREHOUSE - DECEMBER 31ST, 1961 - 11:59 PM_

It wasn't that the DMA had stopped enjoying his time alone, it was just that, sometimes, spending New Year's Eve with someone can be a lot of fun. And fun wasn't wrong, even when you were the deadliest man alive in the world. For all he knew, there was a woman out there who was deadlier than he was anyway. It was probably Cynthia. He felt a light tinge of nostalgia at the thought of the director. He had truly liked her. But it was all in the past. In the present, he was a different man, and he was spending the last few minutes of 1961 with Sergio.

Sergio, who was currently staring at his watch with cheerful determination. He looked up for a second, and his eyes met the DMA's, sparkling with excitement, before going back to the slowly ticking hand of his watch.

Suddenly, he jumped, counting down the last five seconds. The DMA watched him and wondered when he had begun to get attached to the man. The clocks and bells all around the city rang and Sergio launched himself at his friend.

_HUDSON WAREHOUSE - JANUARY 1ST, 1962 - 12:00 AM_

The DMA caught Sergio in his arms and they hugged, holding each other close. It had been years since had last felt the comfort and warmth of an other human body in his arms. He found he enjoyed it, and as they moved from one foot to the other in a little victory dance, he felt happy. They had gotten through 1961. A new year had started. New chances, new opportunities.

"Happy new year, my man!" Sergio exclaimed when they let go of each other, his eyes shining with unbridled happiness.

"Happy new year, Sergio," the DMA answered, and he smiled. It felt weird. It felt right.

"Hey, I don't want to ask too much," Sergio hesitated, "but don't you have a name? I've always known you as the Deadliest Man Alive, but that's not what your parents named you at birth, right?"

The DMA frowned, and Sergio chuckled nervously.

"But you don't have to tell me," he stuttered, a tinge of fear showing in his eyes, "I get it, we're work associates, you don't tell that stuff to your colleagues, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

If anyone else had asked, he would have killed them. Slowly, to set an example. But Sergio was Sergio. He was his friend. Or something like that.

What bothered him, really, was that he didn't know what to answer. He wasn't Owen Carvour. Not anymore. He had been once, but he had changed so deeply, so strongly, that it would be absurd to pretend he was still that man. He had had many names for undercover missions. So many he had lost count. But since the fall, he hadn't had a name. He was the Deadliest Man Alive. It was enough for him, enough for his colleagues. He hadn't had a friend before Sergio. Hadn't had to care.

"I don't have a name," he admitted, and Sergio frowned, confused.

"Didn't you parents-" he started, before the DMA interrupted him.

"My parents gave me a name, but it isn't my identity. I don't have one."

They stayed silent for a moment.

"What about Denver?" Sergio asked hesitantly, "that's fancy, American."

The DMA flinched.

"I don't want fancy and American."

"Donatello? David? Danny?"

The DMA shrugged.

"Wilson? No, not Wilson. Dietrich Delmas? That's a nice name, isn't it? It sounds a little like Deadliest Man Alive, but a little more human."

The DMA figured he did want to be a little more human. Dietrich sounded a little weird for him, a little too German, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Dietrich Delmas. Maybe he could use a real name.

He let the corners of his mouth lift a little, nodded, smiled wider.

"That sounds great, Sergio," he admitted, feeling his shoulders relax.

Sergio's eyes shone brighter. Dietrich realized it was the first time he had let himself look happy in front of anyone since the fall. He hadn't been happy a lot. It felt good.

"Oh, Dietrich, my man, I'm so happy for you!" Sergio exclaimed, and Dietrich let out a little laugh.

_HUDSON WAREHOUSE - AUGUST 12TH - 6:14 PM_

Dietrich was standing in his warehouse with one his colleagues. There was an other one, on the ground. Dead. It wasn't Dietrich's fault that the man had been disrespectful.

"Getting a little soft, sir?" he had asked at the sight of the bright orange couch and the pink flowers on the coffee table. Sergio had said it needed to look more homey, and Dietrich was a polite man, he listened to his friends' suggestions. Maybe he shouldn't have let Sergio direct the renovations, but he had looked happy. Dietrich didn't _care_ , anyway. Though he did like the handmade bedspread decorated with knives and skulls patterns.

The man had chuckled, shaking his head at the flowers, and Dietrich had stabbed him. Twice. In the throat. The man had gurgled in pain for a while, and died. The second man had smiled nervously.

The door opened and closed. He heard Sergio's voice booming from the other end of the warehouse.

"I smell blood! Good thing I haven't carpeted the floor yet! Maybe we should stick to floorboards, it will be easier to wash blood off of wood."

He finally reached their spot and patted Dietrich's shoulder cheerfully. He usually greeted him with a hug, but they had agreed against that when other people were around.

The other man shuffled on his feet impatiently.

"Do you have it?" he grumbled.

"You know I do, Frank," Sergio answered cheerfully, shaking his hand, "have I ever let anyone down? I take my job seriously, yes sir, but I cannot control traffic."

Frank took the small box Sergio gave him, handed him an enveloppe, and left.

Dietrich hadn't said a word during the exchange, which was usual, but he was upset, and it seemed Sergio had noticed it.

"Where are the pastries?" he asked once he heard the sound of Frank's car fade away.

Sergio gave him half a smile, half a chuckle, half a shrug.

"I thought it was time to move on," he answered, "ten wedding anniversaries on my own was enough. Angie isn't coming back, I'm leaving her in the past. I have a life to live, I can't let her control it anymore. She wouldn't want me to."

Dietrich smiled.

"I'm glad you're letting yourself be happy, Sergio," he said, "are you going to find someone else?"

Sergio hesitated for a second.

"The future will tell, I guess," he answered, staring at the floor.

Dietrich nodded. He was happy Sergio was finally moving on. He felt better himself at the news, a real rush of happiness. He was glad his friend was taking care of himself, that was it.

_HUDSON WAREHOUSE - DECEMBER 25TH, 1962 - 8:02 AM_

Dietrich liked knives. He had quite a collection: big knives, small knives, dented knives, curved knives, straight knives, swiss army knives, with handles made of wood, stainless steel, gold. He had stolen that last last, but its former owner had been asking for it.

("I'm sure you take money for a good shag, don't you, pretty boy?" a drunk man had asked when he was eighteen, newly homeless and too tired to react kindly. The man had taken out a knife and Dietrich, Owen at the time, had grabbed it and planted it in the man's stomach, then in his neck. He had kept the knife. Golden handle, carved with a lion head. It would have been ridiculous to throw such a beauty away.)

His knives were all beautiful, and he enjoyed spending his Saturday evenings cleaning them, sharpening them, watching his distorted reflexion in the shiny blades. It was an enjoyable activity.

He knew Sergio would come and see him. He had information to give him. They had scheduled it almost two weeks before. He knew Sergio liked Christmas, so he had bought a nice bottle of wine (not stolen it: he had money, and he was an honest citizen. Murders aside). He had cleaned the warehouse, arranged the cushions on the sofa so they looked nice, and dusted the light bulb. It wouldn't be Christmas with Angie, Carlos and Sonia, but he hoped Sergio would be happy about it.

What he had not expected, though, was for Sergio to get him a present. Dietrich was a little embarassed, he hadn't bought anything for his friend.

He had to amit, that knife was probably his new favourite. He brushed his thumb over the dark wooden handle, carved with his name in Sergio's beautiful cursive. The card said "from Sergio, with love", and it was both a delight and a torture. Dietrich hadn't loved or been loved in years, and he felt like he was about to burst. He felt every emotion at once, and that beautiful knife was from Sergio, with love, and he thought he might cry.

He turned his head to look at Sergio, who looked back expectantly, his eyes a mix of anxious impatience and happiness. He felt his own eyes well up with tears. He had changed a lot over the course of the year. It felt strange to feel so much.

"It's beautiful, Sergio," he managed to murmur, and Sergio smiled.

Dietrich was pretty sure he was in love. It was scary, in a way. The last time he had been in love, it hadn't exactly ended well.

He looked down. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. Sergio was a strong believer. He probably thought homosexuals would end up in Hell. It wasn't his fault, really, it was what he had been taught. He was most probably straight.

_Don't_ hope, Dietrich told himself.

_SERGIO SANTOS' HOUSE, WEST BERLIN - DECEMBER 31ST, 1962 - 11:59 PM_

He had tried not to fall in love, but it wasn't possible. Not when Sergio's eyes were so beautiful, not when his laugh resonated with booming happiness, not when his smile felt so much like home.

But maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as he watched him drink his tea, curled up next to him on the sofa, his eyes going to the clock every few seconds. Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought when Sergio laughed at a something he said, his eyes shining with joy.

_SERGIO SANTOS' HOUSE, WEST BERLIN - JANUARY 1ST, 1963 - 12:00 AM_

Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought when Sergio pulled him in a hug as the clock stroke midnight. Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as his lips met Sergio's, and Sergio's hands went to the back of his neck and his went to Sergio's hips and they pulled each other close. Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as Sergio smiled through the kiss and Sergio's fingers brushed through his hair and Sergio's heart beat as fast as his and Sergio's lips tasted like camomille and Sergio. Sergio.

Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as Sergio pulled away and looked into his eyes with so much love Dietrich felt like he could burst witn happiness. Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as Sergio rested his head in the crook of his neck and murmured a small "I love you". Maybe it wasn't so bad, he thought as he whispered the words back and Sergio hugged him tighter. Maybe it wasn't so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> merry chrysler  
> merry crisis  
> merry chruoazuehofbfaoebf


End file.
